


Counting Down

by eve_23



Series: Hush [2]
Category: Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:49:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eve_23/pseuds/eve_23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Q didn’t think that James went anywhere when something like this was happening. It just didn’t seem like the sort of coping mechanism someone like him would have. Not like Q, who tried very hard to look entertained as he reduced everything on the island to numbers and equations in order to keep himself from having a total breakdown."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Counting Down

In his time on the island, Q had visited exactly twenty buildings in total. 

Five were currently inhabited by Silva, his men, and his computers.

Two were used as storage for machine parts and weapons.

One was used as a makeshift prison.

The other twelve buildings were empty and left to rot.

He didn’t know how many other buildings were left to explore. Q found himself wondering if he should have just gone insane and saved himself all this trouble. 

The young man was sitting in the corner of the rather spacious bedroom, trying to imagine those twelve buildings and what was inside them. He imagined left over toys, abandoned pictures hanging on the walls, maybe an old television parked in a corner. He was trying very hard to imagine these things as he was forced watch the two men going at it in the large bed.

One of the men, Raoul Silva, was his captor. The man who’d brought him here against his will, cut him open, and tried to stitch him back up into some sort of mindless slave.

The other was James Bond, the great 007. He didn’t want to be here either, but was doing a very ( _very_ ) good job pretending that he did. 

Q didn’t think that James went anywhere when something like this was happening. It just didn’t seem like the sort of coping mechanism someone like him would have. Not like Q, who tried very hard to look entertained as he reduced everything on the island to numbers and equations in order to keep himself from having a total breakdown.

James let out a low groan and Q hoped the smile on his face looked genuine.

This room—before Silva made it his own—would have been the master bedroom for some couple. Probably with at least one child. If they were still alive, they’d probably be offended by what was happening here. They also probably wouldn’t have had two armed guards outside the door. 

Q was very worried about them. Silva certainly seemed convinced that Q and James were on his side, but he still wouldn’t allow them to be alone in the same room together for longer than a couple of seconds. Maybe he doubted his methods. Maybe he didn’t want to take any chances. Or maybe he just liked the idea of controlling them. 

Not that he and James necessarily needed to be alone to communicate. Communication was only 10% language, and they were both fast learners. When you can’t speak your mind, anything from a slight glance to a brush of fingertips could mean an awful lot.

No, Q was worried because guards meant making a move would be much more difficult. He needed to get to one of Silva’s computers to signal MI6. He didn’t even imagine it would take that long to do, as long as no one was shooting at him. 

Silva came with a moan and slumped over. James glanced at Q, who nodded slightly.

_I’m alright._

_So am I._

“Pup,” Silva called.

Q got to his feet and approached the bed, making sure to let out a noise of appreciation and lean into his touch when Silva stroked his arm, “Yes sir.”

“Clean us up.”

Q obeyed with a small nod, lapping up the sticky mess on Silva’s stomach. In his head, he continued to think of numbers.

There were currently five boats tied to the dock, though only three of them were used on a regular basis. One of them was damaged. One of them was old and was presumably for emergencies, as it lacked the comforts of the others.

Q didn’t know how many planks of wood made up the dock, but he tried to count it from memory as he turned to clean James off as well. 

Perhaps it was a sign that some of his sanity had slipped after all, but it was always easier to cope with the… unpleasantness of things when James was involved. It wasn’t that Q was enjoying himself… it was more that he knew James wasn’t really enjoying himself either. It helped, if only a little bit.

When Q raised his head, Silva planted a kiss on his cheek and said, “Good boy.”

This room had a bookshelf, but it wasn’t full. It had eight books on it. Q hadn’t been able to get a close enough look at the titles yet. One of the covers was green, and it looked old. Q did not flinch away from the kiss, in spite of what his muscles desperately wanted him to do.

“Thank you, sir.”

“And such a clever boy,” his fingers gently stroked down his scar, from the top of his ear to his mouth. Q felt himself gulp involuntarily, but Silva didn’t seem to mind. If anything, his eyes showed regret for what he’d done to Q’s face.

“I’m sorry, but this is the only way,” Silva had said, holding the knife against his cheek, “the only way for you to see how truly clever you can be. I can make you so much better. Codes and gadgets for MI6? No, I can make you better than that. I can make you like me.”

Of course, to be like him, Q had to be broken. James had years of battle behind him and scars of his own. Silva had half of his face melted away. Q was not like them, and that needed to change.

Q brought himself back to reality. Silva was still staring at him, as though debating something. Finally, the ex-agent made his decision and rose from the bed, speaking as he put his clothes back on.

“You’ve both noticed that I’ve kept guards on you these past weeks.”

“I don’t-” James began, but was cut off by Silva’s laugh.

“Don’t be foolish James, you’re both smart. I wouldn’t have brought you on had you been anything else. No, while we’ve certainly had our fun, I’ve been very obviously keeping you both at arm’s length from the actual project at hand.”

“And are you finally going to let us help you?” James sat up straight, looking as business-like as one could without any clothes on.

“That… is the end goal,” Silva let out a sigh and rubbed his face, “but I’m afraid I can’t let you in on things until I know for certain that you’re both mine.”

Silva walked over to his desk, and rummaged through one of the bottom drawers, pulling out a box. Q did not want to know what was in that box. He wanted to count the planks of wood on the dock, or fantasize about who lived in these buildings before Silva evacuated the island, or… anything really. He just knew nothing good was in that box.

A hand gently brushed Q’s wrist, though only for a second. Q glanced sideways at James, whose face remained focused on Silva. His hand rested on the bed, almost touching Q, but not quite.

_We’ll get through whatever happens next._

“Pup, come here.”

Q rose from the bed and walked over to Silva, who pulled him close and pressed his lips up against his ear.

“I know you’re not used to causing direct harm. You type commands behind keyboards and screens and that is normally enough. That’s why I chose you. However, you need to get your hands dirty every now and then…”

Something cold and metallic was forced into his hands. Q looked down and took a deep breath. It was a scalpel.

“We both know there is no way you’d be able to escape this island on your own. You’d need help. You’d need guidance. You’d need-”

“-007,” Q said quietly.

“Exactly. Prove your loyalty to me, once and for all. Stop yourselves from escaping.”

“I don’t want to escape, sir.”

“I know,” he pet his hair gently, “it’s symbolic. Make it so that _Q_ couldn’t leave.”

“Don’t you want him anymore?” he nodded to James, who was watching them both in confusion.

“Of course I do,” he said with a low chuckle, “don’t kill him. There are plenty of ways to incapacitate someone without killing them.”

Q nodded, not looking at the scalpel. Torture 007. Not kill him, but hurt him just enough that any sort of escape would be… delayed.

“James,” Silva’s called with a small smiled, “I’m terribly sorry about what’s to come. Only know that if you both respond correctly, you truly will have a place by my side.”

And with that, he settled in a nearby chair and nodded to Q, who gripped the scalpel tightly as he walked over to the bed. James took note of it and tensed instantly, though his eyes were telling him to go through with it.

_I don’t think I can_ , Q settled on the edge of the bed and ran a hand down James’ chest, as if appreciating the skin he was going to have to cut open.

_You can. Do it. I’ll be fine_ , James stared up at him.

Q swung his leg over, so that he was sitting on James, scalpel raised and paused over the older man’s skin, trying to decide what he should do next…

His flat back home had five rooms.

One was the living area, one was the bathroom, one was the spare bedroom that had been converted into a computer room because Q was not the sort to have guests, one was his bedroom (which may as well have been another computer room), and one was the kitchen.

His kitchen had four cabinets. One for dishes and bowls, one for glasses (upper shelf large ones, lower shelf small ones), one for the fancier things (rarely used), and one dedicated to mugs.

He owned twelve mugs in all. Seven of them were a set that his mother had bought him. They were plain white.

Two of them were blue.

One of them had a sun messily painted on it. It was a hand-painted birthday gift from one of his nieces, and he never used it. It sat there, the only sign that Q was perhaps not like machines he so often worked with.

One of them was green, left over from an old relationship.

One was his Scrabble mug, though that moved back and forth from home to work on a regular basis.

Q paused, contemplating his neglected mugs. His home was empty now. What if someone broke in and smashed them? What if there was nothing to even go back to-

-No, he wouldn’t think about that. He moved to his bathroom, with its nice tiled floors.

Twenty-four tiles in all. Dark green.

That didn’t include the half tiles where the floor met the sink or the shower.

So really, twenty six-point-five tiles with nice white grout in the middle, acting as nice little divides to create a tic-tac-toe pattern across his floor.

His bedroom had one bed, one television, one dresser, three pictures hanging on the wall, one mirror. There was a quilt in his closet with at least thirty patches. He’d never bothered to count them, but it has to be at least thirty. It was old, and frayed around the edges. He could probably pull out individual threads with ease. He imagined five or six of those threads falling out, to the bottom of his closet, next to three pairs of shoes, one of which were old and ought to be thrown away.

Q continued to pull apart his home, bit by bit, destroying layer after layer with focus until…

“Ah, pup, you may stop now,” Silva’s hand rested gently on the back of Q’s neck. Q turned his head, not willing to look at what he’d done to James, though he could feel the man breathing heavily beneath him, “You’ve both done so well. So very well. You’ve earned your places here. Thank you.”

Silva pressed a kiss to the top of Q’s head and then knelt down to press a kiss to James’ lips. The front of his shirt was bloody when he straightened, but he was far too happy to notice. 

“There’s a medical kit in the desk,” Silva grinned, “Pup, you can fix him up. I’ll take the guards off of you and everything!”

He was truly overjoyed, like a child who just opened his Christmas presents. Q nodded, rising to get the kit. He was smiling. Somehow, he managed to look pleased with himself in spite of... all of that.

“Oh, and of course you may deal with your pent up energy however you see fit, James,” Silva added as he was halfway out the door, “I know how we are, after all. The last two rats. Can’t simply let an event like this go. Please do nothing permanent.”

“Of course,” James said. Q heard the door shut, but couldn’t bring himself to turn around. The kit was clutched tightly in his hands, and he couldn’t move. How could he face what he’d just done? Would James even forgive him? It didn’t even matter whether there were guards at the door anymore. James would probably end him the moment he got too close.

“Come here,” James said, voice surprisingly strong. 

“I…”

“I said, come here.”

Q turned slowly and approached the bed, taking in the damage he’d done. There was a large gash right up the centre of his stomach. It would have been surgical in nature, had it been deeper. That was probably the first thing he’d done. Everything else seemed to sprout from there like some horrible, bloody plant. Q had even managed to slice through the scar tissue on James’ bad shoulder. 

Q sat down on the edge of the bed, hard, waiting for his punishment. Instead, a warm hand reassuringly clasped his own.

_You did well._

Q looked at James and shook his head, _No… no… don’t be proud of me. Not for this. Please._

He cleaned the wounds, trying very hard to go back to counting. When he found that his brain no longer wanted to think in numbers, he simply set his jaw and finished the job.

He had experience stitching up wounds, and certainly knew what he was doing. Hell, the last time he’d done this, the man in question had been squirming, flinching, and moaning the whole time about how much pain he was in. In comparison, James was doing far better, lying there silent and unmoving until Q tended to his shoulder.

James flinched and Q stopped, shaking.

_Keep going_ , James glared up at him, nails digging into the wrist of Q’s free hand, _stop looking at me like that and keep going._

Q helped James to his feet when he was all stitched up. Just because Silva now trusted them completely didn’t mean that he would accept signs of weakness, and James would not be able to rest. Silva needed to see that both James and Q would still follow him, to the death if necessary.

They stared at each other. They could talk now. There were no guards at the door to overhear them, no one to report back their actions. They hadn’t truly spoken in weeks.

“You should punch me in the face,” Q said quietly, “Avoid my hands. I do actually need those.”

James nodded and rolled his shoulders, before punching Q so hard he was sent sprawling to the floor.

Q covered his eye—hopefully it would bruise nicely—and James helped him back up and put his hands on Q’s shoulders. 

He waited for words, but they never came. James simply stared at him, as though he wanted to say something, anything, but couldn’t.

Then again, what could either of them say? Sorry about the torture? Sorry about having to see the worst sides of you? Try not to panic?

They would have to find words eventually. They would certainly be helpful if they hoped to coordinate some sort of escape plan, but for now Q was content to reach up, grip James’ arms to steady himself, and continue to try and count down through anything that came their way.

**Author's Note:**

> I've decided to continue this story, though I don't know how often I can guarantee updates since I don't have a concrete story outline or anything. That's why they're going to come out in little one off stories instead of something with actual chapters.
> 
> (Also, this is going to sound silly, but I spent a weird amount of time double counting everything to make sure I didn't fail at basic math.)


End file.
